Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
single_man_tear) wrote2024-08-20 08:42 am
single_man_tear) wrote2024-08-20 08:42 am
Entry tags:
Tuesday Evening - Bonners Ferry, Idaho
It had been a long couple of days. The portal to Idaho had a connecting portal with a layover in New Hampshire of all places. (Why did a portal business need connecting portals let alone layovers?) By the time he got to Bonners Ferry, he had lost most of the day. Talking to the local police was worthless as they didn’t even bother to consider the exploding hearts as anything but a metaphor. Luckily the coroner was able to give some details but it was a lot of slogging through old microfiche copies of the local newspapers and articles about potato crops before he could find anything worthwhile.
Dean now stood in front of the freshly dug grave before him, the rotten stench of decay wafting up from the coffin below. He grimaced but not because of the smell. This whole digging things up gig used to be easier.
He poured the salt over the skeletal body barely paying attention to the task. The ritual was second nature. Salt the bones, burn the remains, send the ghost packing. Simple, clean, done. The only difference here was the creepy ass clockwork droid lying next to the grave that Dean had picked up at the Consortium. Something that was going into the pit as soon as the fire was lit.
Dean uncapped the kerosene, his movements methodical, almost detached, as he doused the bones. He reached into his jacket pocket for a match when a noise—a subtle whirring, like gears grinding together—caught his attention. He turned and looked at the creepy droid lying next to the grave whose eyes were now glowing an unnatural red.
“Son of a bitch!”
The droid, still clad in a tattered red dress with a blonde wig askew, started pulling itself up off the ground. Its once-human shape was twisted into something grotesque, the intricate clockwork mechanisms beneath the synthetic skin giving it a terrifying, uncanny appearance. The spirit he’d been hunting had found a new vessel. One with a whole lot more bite.
“Great,” Dean muttered under his breath, “killer Barbie’s has gone robocop.”
He reached for his gun, but the droid moved faster than any machine should. Dean barely had time to throw himself to the side, rolling in the dirt as the droid’s outstretched metal claws swiped through the space where he’d been standing.
He came up on one knee, gun drawn, but hesitated. Shooting at it wasn’t going to do much good, not with a ghost pulling the strings.
The droid’s head tilted unnaturally to the side, and a voice—half mechanical, half spectral—croaked out, “You will not destroy me.”
Dean gritted his teeth. “Lady, you’ve got this all wrong. I’m here to give you a proper send-off.”
The droid’s glowing eyes flashed, and it charged again. Dean fired a shot, aiming for the head more out of instinct than anything. The bullet ricocheted off the metal skull with a loud ping, and the droid didn’t even slow down. Dean barely had a chance to dive out of the wave… right into the grave he just dug up.
Dean grunted and then groaned as he crashed directly into the pile of bones. He As the droid bore down on him, he did the only thing that came to mind—he dropped the gun and grabbed a handful of salt from the pile he just threw down in the coffin a few moments before and flung it straight into the droid’s face.
The effect was immediate. The ghost inside the droid screamed, a high-pitched, distorted wail that made the gears and cogs within the machine grind and clatter. The droid fell next to him, the ghost’s hold on it weakening.
Dean didn’t waste a second. He scrambled out of the grave and pulled out a book of matches. He struck the match, lit the entire book, and tossed it into the grave. The kerosene ignited with a roar, flames licking up the sides of the coffin. The ghost’s scream intensified, the flames drawing it out of the droid’s body like a magnet.
The droid convulsed, then crumpled as the ghost was dragged back to its remains, now engulfed in flames. Dean watched as the fire burned bright, the ghost’s wails fading into the night until there was nothing left but the crackle of burning wood and the dull clank of metal starting to fall apart.
He stood there for a moment, staring into the fire, the light casting flickering shadows across his face. Another hunt, another victory.
Whatever.
With a heavy sigh, Dean turned away from the grave, kicking dirt over the still-burning flames as he walked back to the Impala. He didn’t look back. There was no need. All he wanted was a shower and to get the smell of rot and kerosene out of his clothes.
An hour later he was back in his crappy motel room, cleaned up, drinking beer and mindlessly watching QVC.
[NFB. Open for phone calls, texts, etc.]
Dean now stood in front of the freshly dug grave before him, the rotten stench of decay wafting up from the coffin below. He grimaced but not because of the smell. This whole digging things up gig used to be easier.
He poured the salt over the skeletal body barely paying attention to the task. The ritual was second nature. Salt the bones, burn the remains, send the ghost packing. Simple, clean, done. The only difference here was the creepy ass clockwork droid lying next to the grave that Dean had picked up at the Consortium. Something that was going into the pit as soon as the fire was lit.
Dean uncapped the kerosene, his movements methodical, almost detached, as he doused the bones. He reached into his jacket pocket for a match when a noise—a subtle whirring, like gears grinding together—caught his attention. He turned and looked at the creepy droid lying next to the grave whose eyes were now glowing an unnatural red.
“Son of a bitch!”
The droid, still clad in a tattered red dress with a blonde wig askew, started pulling itself up off the ground. Its once-human shape was twisted into something grotesque, the intricate clockwork mechanisms beneath the synthetic skin giving it a terrifying, uncanny appearance. The spirit he’d been hunting had found a new vessel. One with a whole lot more bite.
“Great,” Dean muttered under his breath, “killer Barbie’s has gone robocop.”
He reached for his gun, but the droid moved faster than any machine should. Dean barely had time to throw himself to the side, rolling in the dirt as the droid’s outstretched metal claws swiped through the space where he’d been standing.
He came up on one knee, gun drawn, but hesitated. Shooting at it wasn’t going to do much good, not with a ghost pulling the strings.
The droid’s head tilted unnaturally to the side, and a voice—half mechanical, half spectral—croaked out, “You will not destroy me.”
Dean gritted his teeth. “Lady, you’ve got this all wrong. I’m here to give you a proper send-off.”
The droid’s glowing eyes flashed, and it charged again. Dean fired a shot, aiming for the head more out of instinct than anything. The bullet ricocheted off the metal skull with a loud ping, and the droid didn’t even slow down. Dean barely had a chance to dive out of the wave… right into the grave he just dug up.
Dean grunted and then groaned as he crashed directly into the pile of bones. He As the droid bore down on him, he did the only thing that came to mind—he dropped the gun and grabbed a handful of salt from the pile he just threw down in the coffin a few moments before and flung it straight into the droid’s face.
The effect was immediate. The ghost inside the droid screamed, a high-pitched, distorted wail that made the gears and cogs within the machine grind and clatter. The droid fell next to him, the ghost’s hold on it weakening.
Dean didn’t waste a second. He scrambled out of the grave and pulled out a book of matches. He struck the match, lit the entire book, and tossed it into the grave. The kerosene ignited with a roar, flames licking up the sides of the coffin. The ghost’s scream intensified, the flames drawing it out of the droid’s body like a magnet.
The droid convulsed, then crumpled as the ghost was dragged back to its remains, now engulfed in flames. Dean watched as the fire burned bright, the ghost’s wails fading into the night until there was nothing left but the crackle of burning wood and the dull clank of metal starting to fall apart.
He stood there for a moment, staring into the fire, the light casting flickering shadows across his face. Another hunt, another victory.
Whatever.
With a heavy sigh, Dean turned away from the grave, kicking dirt over the still-burning flames as he walked back to the Impala. He didn’t look back. There was no need. All he wanted was a shower and to get the smell of rot and kerosene out of his clothes.
An hour later he was back in his crappy motel room, cleaned up, drinking beer and mindlessly watching QVC.
[NFB. Open for phone calls, texts, etc.]